


Starving Faithful

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Bathing, Catholic Guilt, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Gender Roles, Handfeeding, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, POV Stiles Stilinski, Religion, Reproductive health, Scarred Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski's A+ Parenting, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “What do you know about heats?”“They’re the curse of Ava, punishment for Original Sin, inflicted on the unworthy. Most give in to their wicked urges, and tempt good alphas and betas into sin with them, but some—like Saint Celeste—retreat to suffer alone, and spare their brethren from temptation,” she recites, her shoulders curling inwards at the implications.“So, nothing. Christ.”





	Starving Faithful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/gifts), [twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/gifts), [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).



> Guys, gals, enby pals. **Please be aware** that this one’s messy, and religion is a major theme—specifically, that Christian fundamentalism/Catholic guilt version that warps so many people’s relationships with their bodies, sex, and sexuality. There are also the inherent consent issues present when dealing with heat in omegaverse, in addition to references to reproductive health issues and sex education. Minor warning for underage--Stiles is just shy of 18 here, which puts her over the age of consent in my country, but things may be different where you live. Tread carefully, please use the backspace button if you need it, and take care of yourselves. <3 
> 
> Major thanks on this go to twothumbs, for planting the seed in my head, Bunnywest and DiscontentedWinter for hand-holding, cheerleading, and beta help, and to DenaCeleste for posting advice. You're all terrifying enablers and I am glad you all can't physically manifest in the same space. :P
> 
> Happy Friday!

_don’t leave me on this white cliff_

Stiles ignores the shivers wracking her slight frame and the way her gut clenches, flipping between nauseous and hungry the way it has for days. It’s stomach flu, she tells herself. It’s _just_ stomach flu. Not bad enough to stay home, to be chastised for succumbing to the weakness of her flesh. Or worse, accused of indulging in sloth.

Daddy doesn’t tolerate any sin, but he can’t stand sloth. The only thing worse is lust.

So she shivers and shakes her way through her last class, and drives home too-slowly. It's only once she gets there that she realizes her mistake. (It was never stomach flu.)

She can't go inside the house—if she does, he'll know. Daddy'll know she's a sinful, wretched creature just like her Mama, just like every omega since Ava tempted Zayd and damned them all. Even though she tried so hard not to be.

Despite every prayer and church service, every bowed head and meekly accepted punishment, Ava has stirred her blood and inflamed her organs. She's repented for every impure thought, resisted every urge to touch the sin between her legs, has tried every day to be the dutiful, obedient daughter her Daddy says all Godly children are.

But she's failed, because the curse is upon her.

She climbs out of the Jeep on unsteady legs, and she knows. She has to hide, has to hunker down and suffer through Ava's curse until it passes. Maybe this is a test. Maybe, if she can prove she's worthy—if she can resist the temptation, get through the other side of heat without giving in—it'll pass on by, never to brand her a filthy Magdalene in the eyes of her father and the church.

(She doesn't quite know what he'd do, if he discovered she's tainted by Original Sin, like the rest of her sex. She's terrified to think on the possibilities—corporal humiliation, the prayers and judgement of the congregation, arranging a marriage, that she might leverage Ava's curse to bless her husband and their family with child—)

She darts inside to grab her hoodie and a few bottles of water, and then she's running for the woods like the devil's on her heels.

_Jesus Christ, it hurts_

She doesn't remember stopping, but she knows she falls. That she keeps falling. It might make sense, that, eventually, she can't get back up.

_and then it gets much worse_

She's _on fire_ , her blood is boiling, and she cries, refusing to sink her fingers into the filthy place tormenting her, to give in to Ava. She can be strong, she's a Godly omega, she's not a slave to her flesh, she can—

_drag your cities to the sea_

She comes to as someone strips her out of her hoodie. "Stupid thing," they mutter, harsh and raspy, "you'd think she'd be old enough to fucking know better."

Hands move over her, dragging her jeans and underwear down, and she tries to open her eyes but can't. Fingers brush between her legs, and she whimpers—her body wants it, but it's _wrong_ , and she's fought so hard not to give in, so how dare this avatar of temptation try to entice her?

"Shit," the voice mutters, and she's never heard so much cussing in her life. "Already in full heat. Goddamnit."

The hands return, pulling off her shoes, jeans, tearing her free of her shirt, leaving her naked as a babe. She fights, then—to open and see through clouded eyes, to keep whatever wretch has found her from ruining her more than Ava’s curse already has—but her weak limbs are caught, her frantic whimpering shushed. “Easy, easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

She’s hefted against a broad, flat chest, cradled like a child. Her cheek rests against the stranger’s shoulder, and the scent of alpha assaults her, sending need tearing through her gut.

She starts to cry. She knows what comes next. Knows she’ll be taken, claimed, forced to succumb to the curse. She’ll be ruined, and Daddy will never so much as look at her again.

She shrieks, eyes flying open, as she’s dumped into freezing cold water. She scrambles, trying to get back out, but the alpha’s hands are on her again, one splayed wide across her chest, and the other catching her scrabbling hands.

“I know, I _know_ it hurts, but we have to get your fever down before your brain cooks.”

She’s able to focus now, can see the alpha who found her. He’s an odd mix of classically handsome and strange—his features are fine, his eyes a vivid blue, but his hair is longer than she’s used to seeing on a man, and scars climb up the right side of his jaw. He’s clean-shaven, and his hands are soft, callus-free. He’s an alpha who found a vulnerable omega in the grips of the curse, and didn’t fall on her like an animal.

She doesn’t know what to make of him. A Man of God, to show kindness to a stranger? Or, perhaps, a cunning devil, sent to entice her into participating willingly in her own ruin?

Once he’s sure she’s stopped thrashing, he takes his hands back. “Now. What the _hell_ were you doing in the Preserve in full heat?”

She opens her mouth to explain, because what else can she do? But he doesn’t give her a chance to speak. “Why aren’t you home, tucked up in bed with your toys and suppressants? Or with a partner?” He grimaces, “Hell, even a clinic visit would be covered by most insurance providers, given the circumstances.”

There’s—she doesn’t know what to say to all that. There’s so much she doesn’t understand. She holds still as he uses a small plastic bucket to pour water across her shoulders and down her back. Now that she’s past the shock of it, the cold feels good, offering a little relief. “Daddy says omegan clinics are for the Godless, and filthy whores.”

The alpha’s face twists in baffled incredulity. It’s a long moment before he replies, and when he does, he speaks slowly. “If I were to take you to the clinic my niece runs, right now, you know what they’d do?” She shakes her head, and wraps her arms around her knees, terrified of the answer, because it’s something _awful_ , given the way her Daddy talks about them. He goes on, his voice terribly kind as he pours more water over her. “They’d give you an emergency shot to stop your heat, hook you up to IV fluids, and then, after some rest, they’d talk to you about your options for suppressants and birth control.”

It’s—she’s heard of this, of drugs that stop the curse, but only ever as a perversion of God’s will. She shivers, feeling more lucid now, but sickly. Her limbs are heavy and her stomach churns, while the organs below continue to torment her. She wants to get out, but doesn’t want to be naked before a stranger, so she stays curled up in the water. “Why—why would they give me those drugs?”

The alpha’s face softens, and he strokes her hair out of her eyes. The last person to do that was her Mama. “Because you’re very young, darling, and you clearly weren’t prepared.”

“Prepared?” How could she have prepared for Divine Judgement?

His hand drops to her neck, one thumb skating across her collarbone. “You’re too thin, dehydrated—the fever that comes with heat was making you delirious. Your doctor should’ve talked to you about putting on weight ahead of your heat, to keep you stable enough to withstand the metabolic stress.”

She shakes her head, confused and uneasy. He’s not making any sense. “Ava’s curse shouldn’t have come to me,” she insists. “I obey the word, say my prayers, don’t associate with non-believers.”

He squints at her for a long moment, and then his expression clears. “You’re part of that extremist church,” he says, like it explains everything.

She swallows, and it feels like a betrayal when she whispers, “My Daddy’s Reverend Stilinski.”

Something in his face breaks at that, and she looks away. “Did anyone ever teach you about sex? In school, maybe?”

She shakes her head, staring at her toes. “Daddy said it would fill my head with sin and evil thoughts. That, when it was time, my husband would teach me how to be a good wife.”

The alpha curses under his breath, and she looks at him in shock. She’d be paddled if she ever said that. He shakes his head and stands up, holding out a hand to her. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but you’ve been lied to, sweetheart. There’s nothing evil or cursed about your heats—they’re natural. They happen to every omega, and some betas, too.”

She hesitates, but takes his hand. She’s ashamed of her nakedness, but he merely wraps her up in a towel and pats her dry like it means nothing. She holds the terrycloth around her, because her clothes are covered in grass stains and mud, her tee shirt in tatters on the floor.

The towel smells like him, and it makes the throbbing between her legs worse.

“What now?”

He looks down at her, considering. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

She nibbles her bottom lip before answering. “Seventeen.”

Some of the tension in his frame eases. “Alright. And is this your first heat?”

She nods, fingers finding and worrying at the triquetra around her throat. It was a gift from her father when she was baptized. 

“What do you know about heats?”

“They’re the curse of Ava, punishment for Original Sin, inflicted on the unworthy. Most give in to their wicked urges, and tempt good alphas and betas into sin with them, but some—like Saint Celeste—retreat to suffer alone, and spare their brethren from temptation,” she recites, her shoulders curling inwards at the implications.

“So, nothing. Christ.”

Stiles’s head snaps around, and she sees him run a hand down his face. Before she can protest, he’s swinging her up into his arms, and she’s torn between grasping his shoulders so he won’t drop her, and maintaining her grip on the towel covering her. In the end, she loops one arm around his thick neck, and the other holds the towel closed. “Where are we going?”

“My room.”

Heart thundering, she swallows. Her voice cracks as she asks, “Why?”

He shoulders the door open, and sets her down on his bed. The comforter is soft under her thighs, the scent of him overwhelming here. He crouches down in front of her, hands braced on her knees. “Because you need to decide how you want to handle this, darling. Will you give me permission to take care of you, or do you want me to take you to my niece’s clinic?”

Stiles is shaking her head before she thinks about it. “I can’t go to a clinic! Daddy’ll find out and he’ll—he’ll—”

“Okay, okay, shh, it’s alright.” The alpha’s arms wrap around her, one hand smoothing up and down her back, and oh. She’s shaking.

When she’s calmed, he leans back. “Okay. I’m going to get you one of my shirts to wear, and then I’m going to go call my niece, see if she has any advice for me.”

“You can’t tell her!” Stiles’s fingers clench the fabric of his shirt, because he _can’t_ , no one can know, or Daddy will find out.

He smooths his fingertips over the back of her hands until she lets go, and then he stands. “Sweetheart, I don’t even know your name. I can’t tell her who you are, even if I wanted to. And, if I did? She’s a medical professional, and bound by confidentiality.”

“Oh.” Her Daddy’s always come with her to her appointments. She looks up, and sees him holding out a cotton shirt, sky-blue and soft. “Stiles. My name’s Stiles.”

The alpha smiles at her. “Peter Hale. Now, you get changed, and then hang that towel up—I have to go call Laura.”

He leaves, and she waits until she can hear the indistinct murmur of his phone call before unwrapping the towel. His shirt is cloud-soft and whisper-thin, falling to mid-thigh. It’s too short to be anything like decent, but decency went out the window when Ava’s curse arrived. She goes back to the bathroom to hang up the towel, cringing when she catches sight of herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy, and her nipples are poking through Peter’s shirt. To say nothing of the mess spreading between her thighs. She bites her lip, torn between wanting to clean herself, and afraid she’ll give in if she touches, even if only to wash the mess away. Miserable and unable to think of a way to manage, she goes back to Peter’s room.

She doesn’t expect the smell of alpha to take her off her feet, but it does—there’s no escaping it here, in this room he was in a moment ago, where his bed and clothing hold the scent of his skin. Her knees fold, and she hits the floor with a muffled thump. She’s lucky—or unlucky—enough to catch herself on the edge of his bed.

Lucky, because it means she doesn’t crack her skull on the wooden floors, or any of the furniture. Unlucky, because now, her cheek is pressed against his bedding, and Ava twists her insides with a vengeance.

Peter rushes back in, gathering her from the floor. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he murmurs against her hair, and she has a moment to be grateful that, of everyone who could’ve found her, it was this man, as he settles her on his lap on the bed.

She takes that thought back when his fingers slide up her thigh and sink inside her without warning. She cries out, and tries to push him away, but he does _something_ and suddenly she’s clenching around his fingers as she falls forward, stars bursting behind her eyelids. She manages a little mewl of protest, but his fingers don’t stop, and she’s horrified to realize her hips are rocking into his hand.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips dragging against her neck and causing tingles to ripple across her skin. “Let go, let it happen, it’ll help.”

She wishes she could do anything else, but she obeys, whining against his collarbone as his fingers push and stroke and _twist_ until her whole body goes taut and white-hot pleasure flashes through her. She goes limp after, trembling. Peter stops moving his fingers, but doesn’t take them out, and she doesn’t know what to think about that.

She hasn’t caught her breath yet, but her curiosity won’t let her wait. “Why—what—”

He drops a kiss on her temple. “Have you never had an orgasm, sweetheart?”

“I don’t—what? Is that what that was?”

The ache in her belly is less, now, her mind clearer. “Mhm.” There’s a long moment of silence, and then, “Have you not—have you ever touched yourself? Here?” The fingers he has inside her twitch, but it feels good.

She shakes her head weakly. “Of course not. I told you. I li—lived according to the scripture, avoided temptation.”

“Oh, darling,” he mutters, and it’s _mournful_. Like following God’s will is terrible, or a reason to pity her.

“Why’d you say it like that?” She leans back so she can see his face, and this close, she can see that the scarring on his jaw climbs up to his ear, that it was a burn that marked him. She wonders what happened to him, and resists the urge to trace the puckered flesh with her fingers.

“Because pleasure isn’t a sin, Stiles, and you should have been allowed to learn about your own body, what would happen when you were old enough to bear.”

She shakes her head, brows pulling together. “What?”

His fingers twist slowly, and her breath catches. “Because this, what you’re feeling right now, is natural. And because, if you didn’t want to have full heats, you should have been allowed to see a doctor and go on suppressants, waited until you were ready.” His thumb moves then, brushing against something on the outside that makes her spine bow and thighs shake. “Because if you’re not using medications to manage your heats, the best thing you can do is listen to your body, give it what it’s asking for.”

This thumb moves again, and she clutches at his shoulders so she doesn’t fall with the way she jerks in response. She is, once again, grinding into his hand like a wanton whore, her head thrown back as she gasps for air, when his lips find her throat again. She laces her fingers through his hair even as she gasps out, “It’s giving in t-to te-tempta-ation. Sin.”

He pulls away suddenly, lips and fingers, hair and hands, and she wants to cry, to beg him to come back, but before she can finish feeling shocked at her own wicked urges, he’s flipped them over. She’s flat on her back, and he hovers above her, elbows caging her in.

It sends a frisson that’s half-yearning, half-fear through her. “Let’s see if you still think this a sin after I’ve made you see the face of god,” he growls.

She opens her mouth to chastise him for the blasphemy, but her words turn to a choked moan when he ducks his head and fastens his mouth over her sex. It’s lush and decadent, _hedonistic_ , the way he licks and sucks, _slurps_ and flicks the tip of his tongue over shamefully needy flesh until she’s arching in a second climax. This time, she feels every muscle lock and strain, hips arching towards Peter’s mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair as her heart pounds and her breath stops, until finally, her vision goes white and ecstasy engulfs her.

Peter kisses her, his lips and chin filthy from where they’d been, and she expects it to be repulsive. Instead, she finds the taste rich and sour-sweet.

“I didn’t know,” she babbles, and it’s nonsense, doesn’t make sense, even in her own head, but Peter—strange, wicked, holy Peter—kisses her again.

“I know,” he murmurs.

_I know I should know better_

Time blurs as Peter takes her deeper and deeper into sweet sin, guiding her through her heat, his mouth ravenous and his fingers unrelenting when he pushes them inside her. Everything takes on a soft, golden haze as she gives herself over to the gluttony of it—to the way she arches into his touch, tongue, teeth; the way she breaks, begging him for more, hips rising to meet him; the decadence of letting him feed her slices of fruit and cubes of cheese in the lulls.

If he _is_ an avatar of temptation sent to lead her astray, then she admits to herself that either the devil is more cunning—and more knowing—than she ever knew, to have known exactly who to send in her weakest moment, or she was always destined to fall.

_need a big god, big enough to fill you up_

There comes a moment where Peter’s mouth and fingers no longer soothe the inflammation, where her hunger grows too large to satisfy, turning to greed. She thinks this is the punishment for giving in to Ava’s urges, and tries to resign herself to suffering, but Peter turns her onto her elbows and knees. “It’s alright, darling. I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t understand—and then he kneels behind her, and she does. She knows what’s coming, that he’ll enter her, take what’s promised to her future husband, but it doesn’t scare her anymore.

Her faith is rewarded when he sinks inside her slowly with a groan. She gasps at the sensation, at the way her body welcomes his inside, as if he’s the missing piece she’s been unknowingly searching for. He misunderstands, and stops moving, leaning down to kiss at her shoulders. “I know, lamb, I know it’s a lot. I’ll go slow, I promise.”

Her hips rolls with a grace she’s never had, taking him deeper. “Please,” she whimpers.

He huffs out a laugh before pulling back, and sliding deep again. “You think you can take all of me, little lamb?”

She’s whining out a broken “yes” before she grasps what he’s asking her.

When he grinds deep and lets his knot begin to fill, she understands. It frightens her a little, but Peter runs a hand up her back, pushing her shoulders to the bed and deepening the arch of her spine. “You’re ready, I promise.”

She bites her lip, face hidden in the blankets that smell of them, of sex and sweat and desire. “It won’t hurt?” She’s always been told it would, that pain is the price of conception, but nothing with Peter has been like what she’s been led to believe.

He pauses. “It might, a little. But,” he moves them back, until she’s astride his lap, legs splayed shamefully wide and leaning against his chest, “only a little, because this is the first time. You’re stretched, and deep in heat, ready as you’ll ever be.”

She moans, and chooses to trust. “Give it to me? Please?”

He cups her throat and kisses her deeply, rocking them gently as his knot fills, locking into place inside her as they tie. She breaks their kiss to sob at the feeling, at the _rightness_ of it, of being a vessel filled when all she’s known is emptiness. It’s beyond pleasure, beyond heat. She’s shaking and panting for air, drowning in the pulses between her thighs—his or her own, she can’t tell.

“That’s it, little lamb,” he breathes, one hand still cupping her throat and holding her against him, the other rubbing at the slick, swollen flesh where they’re joined. “Come again for me, _with_ me.”

She obeys—because how could she not?—and loses herself, transcending her body for a moment. She becomes a being of pure sensation, one soul in perfect union with another’s. It feels like it lasts an eternity, and yet, is over too soon.

When she’s aware again, Peter’s moved them onto their sides, her body cradled in the curve of his own. Stiles—she’s overwhelmed, shocky and loose-limbed with pleasure, but she’s never felt so peaceful, so complete. “God,” she breathes, but it’s not Him she’s praying to.

_shower your affection, let it rain on me_

When her heat finally breaks, Peter bathes her again. Only, this time, he joins her in the bath, which is warm, and they take turns pouring water with their cupped palms. The tub isn’t large, and every place their skin touches makes her heart flutter like hummingbird wings.

_need a big god, big enough to hold your love_

Stiles thought that, once she was clean and no longer feverish, Peter would turn her out of his house and send her on her way. He’d have every right to. Instead, he takes her back to bed—dressed in clean sheets—and pulls her close. She rests her head on his chest and wonders that she can have this, that he’d want it. The men of her congregation are so hardened, their voices and manners as harsh as their hands, their affection distant and reserved when rationed among their wives and children.

Peter’s body is hard—with muscle, with more burn scars across his ribs and one side of his chest—but he’s treated her with more gentleness than she would’ve thought him capable of. With more tenderness than she ever thought she’d be shown, and it makes her wonder if, perhaps, he was sent not as an agent of sin, but instead as a Good Samaritan in her darkest hour.

(But that may only be the voice of Pride, offering the pretty justifications she seeks. And she knows it _is_ pride that makes her believe otherwise, but is she truly so unworthy in the eyes of the Alpha-Father that she’s allowed no convictions, no truths of her own?)

It’s here, with nothing between them but the triquetra ‘round her neck, that the metaphysical implications of the last half-day give way to the physical ones, and chilling fear glides down her spine to numb her limbs. “What will I do if I’m with child?” she whispers.

Peter busses a kiss across her forehead. “It’s extremely unlikely you’d catch on a first heat, especially given how unprepared you were, and what your body went through.”

She curls closer. “You sound so sure.”

He chuckles. “Trust me, Stiles. You haven’t caught.”

She tilts her head back so she can look at him. “How can you be sure?”

The right side of his mouth pulls, and the scarring twists it into a sneer as his eyes flash. “I’d know.”

She bolts upright, one hand braced on his chest so she can see his face properly. “You’re a werewolf?”

“It’s not like I tried to hide it,” he snaps, his expression brittle. “It’s not like I could.”

“ _Hale_ ,” she breathes, realizing her hand is braced against the scars on his chest. He turns his face away, baring the full extent of the damage, and she remembers how, two years ago, her father was preaching from his pulpit about how “the Lord shall send down fire to cleanse the filthy beasts, and purge the Earth of their perversion.”

The Reverend called it punishment for their heathenism, and delighted in it. Looking at Peter now, at the werewolf alpha who lost his beta wife in a fire set by so-called Godly men, she sees it for the tragedy it is. Her eyes prickle, and she blinks tears away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, even though it wasn’t her, and she couldn’t have known.

Peter guides her back down, so her cheek rests against his chest. “Your father does more damage than he knows.”

She says nothing—there’s nothing to say. He’s right.

_I can make this work_

Despite Peter’s faith in his ability to scent the chemical changes that would accompany a pregnancy, Stiles is still troubled. Her father will absolutely turn her out of his house for such a thing, even without knowing a pagan and a werewolf had fathered the child and sullied his bloodline. And, even if she didn’t catch this time—there’s no telling what might happen next time.

Because there will be a next time. Heat will come upon her again, and her choices are bleak. Her father is an alpha—he’ll notice the changes in her if she goes on birth control or suppressants, because both have side effects she won’t be able to hide. To say nothing of the dangers of keeping those drugs anywhere he might find them.

When she confesses to Peter, he books her an appointment with his niece, and then they sit down with coffee and start to plan.

_but you can never know the places that I go_

When she slips home, it’s a little shocking to realize she’s only been gone a day and a half. The painting of the Virgin Bella and holy infant stare at her from the living room, and the house—despite its yellow walls and the light spilling from the kitchen—feels tight and closed-in, ominous.

Her father looks up from his papers, his stare cutting across the tops of his reading glasses. “And where have you been?”

She clasps her hands and bows her head. “I’m sorry, Daddy—I was called to fast and pray in the woods, as our Alpha-Father once called his Son into the desert.”

“The Lord called _you_?” She struggles not to react to the derision in his voice, and regrets that Peter sowed pride in her so deeply in such a short time, when she so desperately requires her hard-fought humility.

“Yes, sir.”

The silence stretches, and grows heavy, but she does not break under it. Eventually, her father relents. “When did you last eat, then?”

The echo of sweet, crisp apples and tart cherries, creamy mozzarella and tangy cheddar fills her mouth. She swallows. “Friday, at lunch.”

“Well, make yourself something, then.”

She nods, and murmurs her thanks, but he’s already returned to his papers. She’s quiet as a mouse as she makes a sandwich and heats leftover roast potatoes in the microwave. Sitting opposite her father at the kitchen table, she makes the sign of the triquetra and whispers grace before eating.

She never catches the Reverend staring, but she feels the weight of his suspicious gaze all the same.

_pull down the mountain_

**From: The Lion, 12:40pm  
** _You looking forward to your fellowship meeting tomorrow?_

(Are you ready for your appointment with Laura?)

**To: The Lion, 12:41pm  
** _Absolutely! You said the topic of discussion is Original Sin?_

(She knows what I’m coming in for, right?)

**From: The Lion, 12:41pm  
** _Yes._

**To: The Lion, 12:42pm  
** _Is there a guestbook I need to sign?_

(Documents? Papers? Insurance? Is there a cost? My father can’t find out)

**From: The Lion, 12:43pm  
** _I’ll look into it, little lamb._

(I’ll take care of it.)

She’ll be eighteen in April, will graduate high school six weeks after that. She just has to hold on a few more months, and then she’ll be free.

(And the lion shall lay down with the lamb.)

**Author's Note:**

> Italicized quotes are from Big God by Florence + the Machine, which provided major writing fuel for this story, and I highly recommend listening to it as you read. Title taken from Hozier's Take Me To Church. 
> 
> My blasphemous ass can also be found [here](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/).


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